


Thin Ice and Dangerous Waters

by Nebulad



Series: Blood Mages & Other Horrors [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood, Blood Magic, F/M, Gore, Pre-Relationship, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What did you <i>do?”</i> It was somewhere between a scream and a whisper though he couldn’t have judged where. Varric was standing uncomfortably to the side, and Isabela was gone. Luca was kneeling where she’d been before, blood in her hair and on her chest and on her red hands.</p><p>“I healed you,” she said. She was trying to judge how to tell him— flipping through <i>defensive, deferential, apologetic, unrepentant</i> in her head as quickly as he was trying to decide whether or not he should hurt her.</p><p>He wasn’t going to. He didn’t want to. He wanted to hurt blood mages and— </p><p>His head hurt. It wasn’t fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Luca’s hair had blood in it.

It felt strange that her hair was the first thing he noticed upon opening his eyes. Yellow brown and bound back into a high, thick bun with curls twisted around the base of it like a crown… She was pretty, for a mage. Hardly any of the telltale signs of cruelty— no twisting scowls, no deep grooves dug into her face by grimaces, and her amber eyes were warm and curious. Like Merrill, she simply looked like a person, not unattractive and charming as far as charm went.

It took him a moment to remember the blood, but it was certainly there. It made her hair pinkish in spots and stained the robes she liked best— he’d _told_ her that it was foolish to wear them into battle if she didn’t want them stained, but she was a _mage._ When would _she_ ever be injured? At that particular moment however, the healer seemed otherwise fine. Clearly she’d been partially right; _she_ was not the injured party.

He was beginning to suspect that _he_ was.

“Lucky, maybe you oughta…” That was Varric, to his left. Consciousness was returning to him in leaps and bounds, but instincts told him to slow down. Most of it was probably adrenaline, and the healer looked a little worse for the wear. Zigzag curls sprung from where they were supposed to be tidily tied, and she wheezed quietly out of her mouth as her hands worked in unison to try and rebind whatever had come undone in him.

“I’m almost finished,” she said firmly, despite her lack of breath. He must have been hysterical from loss of blood— he wanted to laugh. She was the very first Ferelden he’d ever heard speak, and for the first few weeks of their acquaintance he was _lost._ He’d thought he’d become familiar enough with her rural accent that he wouldn’t hear it anymore, but right then it was back in full force— the question was whether it was because of her or him.

“You will be if you don’t… you know.” The dwarf sounded uncomfortable and Fenris shifted to let everyone know that he was awake. She smiled at him full force, her tawny brown skin flushed with effort.

“Just stay still a bit longer, handsome,” she urged, and he looked down to his side where her hands were working. He vaguely remembered taking the hit— it had been a poor choice in the heat of the moment. The blow was coming whether he liked it or not, as his sword was in no position to block. There was a blurred memory of trying to force himself to decide where to take the blow, but it’d been a rogue delivering it. He didn’t have the time to argue with himself, and as a result took it to the ribs.

He propped himself up on his elbows to see where she was— was he bleeding, was he mended, would it scar— when he finally caught sight of what Varric had encouraged her to stop before he saw. One of her hands was blue— that was perfectly normal. She’d shown him the blue of her spirit healing, and while he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with her explanation of how she did it, he accepted it. It reminded him of the ocean around Seheron, and the glimpses of the port of Minrathous he’d stolen trailing behind Danarius.

Her other hand was red, and he knew what that meant just as surely as he remembered the dimly lit chamber where Danarius held his meetings with… _choice_ senate members. He remembered red hands and the blood of slaves draining until their veins were shrivelled and dry and he stood and watched— he remembered it so fucking vividly he felt as if his lungs were punctured because suddenly they were empty. He sluggishly tried to pull away and her magic grew stronger. Panic was making a mess of his mind and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was.

The chamber that smelled of cloying cologne. The unnaturally white, haunting grins of the assembled as the red, red hands soaked the life out of someone Fenris might have known. He kicked to try and shove himself away— from Luca, from the assembled, from Danarius, from the bloodless corpse slumped in the centre on a raised platform so that no angle was lost—

“Done.” She took her hands back and the magic faded. Strength enough returned to his body and he shoved himself over sand— the beach, the Wounded Coast, Kirkwall. He wasn’t dreaming. The sand. The weak Marcher sun. The ocean’s waves rolling on the cliff below them.

“What did you _do?”_ It was somewhere between a scream and a whisper though he couldn’t have judged where. Varric was standing uncomfortably to the side, and Isabela was gone. Luca was kneeling where she’d been before, blood in her hair and on her chest and on her red hands.

“I healed you,” she said. She was trying to judge how to tell him— flipping through _defensive, deferential, apologetic, unrepentant_ in her head as quickly as he was trying to decide whether or not he should hurt her.

He wasn’t going to. He didn’t want to. He wanted to hurt blood mages and—

His head hurt. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he should make a friend for the first time, one that snuck into his house late at night with baskets of food, one that teased him for all the spikes on his armour, one that respectfully encroached upon his space because he couldn’t _ask_ someone to care enough to climb in a window every now and then… and then they turn out to be a blood mage.

And she’d used it on him. Not just a blood mage, but one that _knew_ him and _knew_ why he hated magic and _knew_ why he was afraid and _knew_ that his paranoia was unchecked and second only to his gut-wrenching anxiety, and used his blood anyway.

He wouldn’t be cattle again— lyrium, blood, battle… or anything else.

“What did you put in me?” His throat hurt and his limbs were shaking out of his control— was it his fear or a demon that made him feel like he wasn’t directing his own body? He couldn’t stand with his trembling, boneless legs— anxiety or demon? Fear or demon? Fenris or… something else?

“Nothing,” she said quietly. “I didn’t do anything with your blood, I swear.” He spat on the ground, a gob of blood which seemed grimly appropriate. “Fenris I _swear._ I only kept it all in while I healed you— ask Varric!”

“I watched her, elf.” Varric seemed to be under the impression that Fenris found that _preferable_ somehow. Supervision was secondary to prevention. He didn’t want blood mages _watched,_ he wanted them _dead._ They caused suffering. They destroyed innocence and they _deserved_ to die and yet he couldn’t bring himself to even _want_ to attack anyone. He was hurt, betrayed— he wanted to curl up into a ball and die, maybe, not to kill anyone else.

“Why didn’t you _stop_ her?”

“Because death is an ugly alternative.” Varric shifted his weight. “She really just held you all together, Fenris. Used Raider blood to get everything moving.”

“I don’t care _whose_ blood she used,” he snapped. He felt his muscles move again and scrambled to his feet clumsily. He turned to Luca, who was still just kneeling there. She made no move to reach out to him— Maker, it looked as if she still hadn’t decided what to say to him. _“You,”_ he snapped. She looked up at him with eyes that were infuriatingly the same— the same orange-brown with no redness, no strain, no coldness or cruelty. “Don’t come near me. Don’t speak to me, don’t send anyone else to speak with me—”

“All right.” He chafed at being interrupted, but it was secondary to his desire to leave. He turned on his heel, feeling his coordination return slowly, and stormed away. He would return to the house he squatted in and from there… perhaps he would leave. He didn’t want to, but was it necessary at this point? A blood mage knew his location and the weaknesses in his house’s defences. Was he safe in Kirkwall?

Was he safe anywhere?

He would decide when he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been playing with this forever because well my Hawke is very much a blood mage although. The way it's posited in lore is kind of distasteful to me because 1) it has incredible potential as a supplement to healing, and 2) they make it seem like people can just do it willy nilly and it's so powerful and YA blood is a renewable resource but not instantly so. It takes time, and the pocket of time in between "all-powerful" and "woozy" would be very small. Also it would probably hurt like dicks. [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) for some sick ass shit there's pages and shit it's amazing. There's playlists that I worked for fucking ever on.


	2. Chapter 2

He saw Isabela first, after three days of solitude. He’d decided to stay— he’d remained in Kirkwall because he was tired of fleeing Danarius. He would not leave because he’d been betrayed. The only issue with staying in Kirkwall, however, was that it was boring. He no longer went out on missions— he hadn’t even heard word of Luca— which meant that any work he wanted, he would have to hunt down on his own.

That would come later, he decided. He was still well stocked with food and drink, and was waiting for… something to happen. Something to prove that she had planted a demon inside of him. Nothing so far, but he wasn’t one to let his guard down so easily.

Isabela strode into his home as if it hadn’t been three days since he’d stormed away from the Wounded Coast, flopping down on his threadbare couch. “You know sweet thing, if you were worried about demons we could always get Anders to check you over.” It was unsettling how she so easily cut to the heart of his problem.

“I would rather have the demon,” he returned shortly, staring into his fire. Around this time of night, Luca would have come over for his reading lesson— he didn’t _want_ to miss it. He hadn’t wanted to miss Danarius and he didn’t want to miss Luca.

“Well _I_ still think you should come to Wicked Grace tonight.” She stretched her leg in the air as if inspecting the hair on her thighs— casual. Isabela was infinitely casual.

“No.”

“Lucky isn’t going to be there,” she told him. “She’s a little bit heartsick right now.”

“I don’t care,” he insisted ferociously. He didn’t— it was sort of alarming, actually, because in any other situation he might have… done something. Cared to the point of action. He might have been more satisfied now if he could be _pleased_ that she was hurt, but the defensiveness of justifying his indifference was just as good. He didn’t _have_ to care. _She_ was in the wrong.

“I didn’t think you would. You don’t have to.” If _she_ were a mage, Fenris would be concerned about Isabela reading his mind. “I just wanted you to know that she isn’t sitting in her gilded tower, cackling down at you. For whatever it’s worth, she doesn’t think she was in the right.”

“I don’t care,” he repeated. She shrugged. “Where were you while she…” Their party had been entirely rogues that day. Isabela had been their dual wield, dancing too quickly for the enemy to get a handle of. Her distraction would keep the Raiders away from the ranged Varric and Luca, while Fenris mopped up.

“You got hit and I… well you were unconscious. You were either going to die or never speak to Luca again and I didn't want to hang around to see the end of either.” She stretched and rolled over on her stomach to face him properly in his chair. “If you want to come down to cards, we can make arrangements. You don’t have to stay in your house because you don’t want to see her.”

“I will… consider it.” He was grateful. It had been sort of… frightening to think that mutual friends would abandon him. Isabela stood on that note, and leaned over to place a sticky lipstick kiss on his cheek that made his face flush.

“Consider soon. There’s a hat in Lowtown I want and no one loses to me quite so well as you do,” she told him. The house felt emptier after she left and for the first time, Fenris thought that perhaps it was the lack of companionship. Perhaps he was lonely.

Wicked Grace didn’t sound so bad.

. . . . .

He arrived disgustingly early, on the off chance that the whole thing was some ruse to get him to speak with Luca again. It wasn’t, thankfully, but that left him alone with Varric while they waited for the others to trickle in. The dwarf was… quiet. Obnoxiously so.

“I suppose you think I should apologize to Luca,” he snapped finally. If anyone were to judge him for his anger he would have it out in the open. He had nothing to be ashamed of— he was a free man who was allowed to be angry, even if it was inconvenient or ugly or it made Luca cry.

“Why would I think that?” he asked, looking up from his notes. Usually his frantic note-taking sessions were filled with noise as he tried to remember words and beckoned to the others for ideas and feedback. His silence was telling.

“Because you’ve been caring for her since she came to Kirkwall, and Isabela has told me that she’s upset.” If there were a stranger set of friends than Luca and Varric, Fenris had yet to meet them. It was precisely the sort of heroics that Varric enjoyed assigning to others— a rich man taking in a vagabond and her younger brother off the streets, helping them earn a living and supplementing their funds when even their best efforts came up short. Luca used to escape to the bar whenever she fought with Gamlen to use Varric’s empty bed.

“ _Upset?”_ Varric tilted his hand. “Not the word I would have used. _Manic_ is more on the nose— it’s like she hasn’t sat down for three days. In the same breath where she explains that she’s cooking all these huge mountains of food for Merrill, she’ll just dissolve into tears and keep talking. It’s sort of creepy, honestly.”

“Not so much as waking up to find someone performing blood magic on you,” he hissed. The dwarf put up his hands.

“I’m kind of on your side for this,” he told him. “Not all the way, but I don’t think you should _apologize_ to her. She knew going in that you’d hate her— I warned her, even, told her that if she went through with it then you’d never speak to her again, if she was _lucky._ All she said was that she’d be grateful that you were alive to hate her.”

“Is that supposed to make me pity her?” he asked, but it was less sharp. Varric didn’t intend to make it sound like Fenris was in the wrong. He knew that Luca shouldn’t have done what she did.

“Just giving you the facts, elf. She did what she did with full knowledge and intent. If you hate her, then you hate her— I doubt anyone of sound mind would say that she deserves any sort of _sorry_ from you.” Varric rearranged his papers, then put them away as Isabela walked in the room.

“Well now, look who it is.” She kissed him more briefly this time, which didn’t stop the embarrassing blush. “Few more people and we can get this show on the road.” The pirate grinned and sat down, and Fenris felt a little bit normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also have I mentioned that the Kirkwall crew are mostly friendly and that their friendships don't hinge on Hawke as some sort of adhesive?


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris was proud of himself. It had been a month and despite… low points, where he missed her terribly and almost considered apologizing whether or not it was founded… he hadn’t. He’d begun taking jobs with the others, where Luca wouldn’t go. He was building a life, and doing so mostly independently.

Sebastian handled his work for him, though. He could have done so himself but people tended to arrange higher payment without a fight when the prince was the one to run negotiations. Aveline refused to barter, stating firmly that it was technically her job to do these things for free.

And unfortunately, the fourth member of their party was Anders.

The abomination was about as pleased about it as they were, but it was a serious risk to enter battle without a healer on hand, and Luca was clearly out of the picture. Fenris had argued that he trusted Anders just a little less than the blood mage, but Aveline wouldn’t hear it. _I’m not happy about it either, Fenris, but I’d rather not bleed to death to avoid him._

Luckily, most of their work lately had been errands for the Grand Cleric. It hardly required a team— Fenris had been picking up packages from Meredith and running money between the Sisters in Lowtown and the Chantry donation box for weeks. For all the opulence and indolence of the church, at least it was quiet. Fenris rather enjoyed it specifically for its total lack of people.

Of course, as luck would have it, he found Luca there.

It was the first time he’d even seen her since the Wounded Coast, and it irritated him anew that she didn’t look any different. In Tevinter, the mages had the decency to look evil. Revelling in their social superiority, they dressed better and had finer things. They were visible. Besides the fact that Luca had taken the time to do her hair that afternoon— the twisting knot curls that Isabela had taught her to do— she was the same as ever.

“She can’t just storm away when she’s wrong, Sebastian,” she snapped, pointing at the retreating figure of the Grand Cleric. “And she definitely can’t tell me that the Maker’s servants will direct donations where He sees fit. If her stupid ass fucking Maker can’t tell that the Alienage’s water _glows,_ then—”

“Hawke, _please.”_

“Don’t _please_ me. They need clean water whether or not she wants to haul—” And _there_ was where she caught sight of him, looking at her from beside the alms box. She visibly shuddered, like her whole body had to physically restart itself. “Whether or not she wants to direct funds that way. I can be a very… I…” She’d been on the cusp of threatening the Chantry, but seemed to rethink it with him there.

“Give me a few days, Hawke. I’ll do my best to talk her down, but you aren’t making it any easier,” Sebastian said firmly. Fenris wondered if he could tell the elf was there just by the sudden change in Luca’s demeanor.

“I’ll be back if they don’t receive funding soon.” The effect was lost without any heat to it. Sebastian nodded sagely. “I mean it.”

“I know. I’ll do my best.” She nodded, gnawing at her lip which only ruined the _threatening_ image further. There was some awkward shuffling while she tried to decide how to leave, but she settled for scrambling down from the altar and rushing by him without looking up from her feet. He remained standing there until he could imagine she’d sped all the way to Lowtown.

Sebastian greeted him and accepted the package Fenris offered him— enchanted by the Tranquil or something. He rarely asked questions. “I will admit, it’s strange to see Hawke so docile,” he said conversationally. Fenris grunted. “Isabela tells me she’s doing better— fewer mood swings.”

“So?” Luca had always been volatile. He didn’t care anymore.

“I was just wondering how you fared in comparison— if you were still determined to hate her,” he said with a shrug that was too casual. Sebastian often forgot that not everyone was as gullible as a priest.

“Should I condone her blood magic instead?” he asked sharply.

“You know that isn’t what I meant. I’m merely suggesting that with some support she could be convinced of her error. The two of you were close, before.” _Before._ Before she had performed blood magic _on_ him, knowing his past and knowing of his fear. She’d done it to save his life, but without consideration for the pain it would cause him. He didn’t owe her forgiveness or understanding.

“Don’t concern yourself,” he said, hoping that Sebastian would take the hint. He did, backing off gracefully and the conversation towards the package Fenris had fetched. To his chagrin, though, Sebastian’s doubts stayed in his head. They had been close. Fenris had enjoyed being close and while he did have the friendship of everyone else… Luca had been different. Her own person.

He thought on it for far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she's usually much more intimidating I swear


	4. Chapter 4

It was the abomination that ended it. Doubts had been building up in Fenris’ mind— she’d never used blood magic before but to save his life. Could he live with that? Was he hating her on principle? Was it his duty to watch her regardless of whether or not he could forgive her?

Anders had to open his mouth, and in some roundabout way Fenris was grateful. “Just so you know, for once I think I totally agree with you,” he said conversationally as Fenris mulled over a pair of gauntlets in Lowtown. He grunted. “Luca thinks she knows everything about magic, thinks that she’s smarter than Circle mages. She’s going to get herself or someone else killed one day pulling stunts like she did to you.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. Anders knew nothing of his past and didn’t understand _how_ Luca had hurt him. He was just running his mouth about a person that Fenris had cared for once, and he wasn’t willing to tolerate it no matter how mixed his feelings were.

“What? I’m _agreeing_ with you.”

“I didn’t ask for your approval. What happened between Hawke and I is none of your business.” The gauntlets quickly lost their appeal and he turned to find where Aveline had gone to. For some reason, both the guard captain and the priest had left him alone.

“Maker you’re prickly. I’m only saying she shouldn’t have use blood magic on you,” he insisted, trailing along behind Fenris like a sort of unwanted stray (and what a bad comparison, because an animal would never irritate him like the mage did).

“I suppose you would have preferred letting me die?” he asked without turning.

“I gathered it was what _you_ would have preferred. Forget I said anything.” There was an eyeroll, but Fenris ignored it. Let it never be said that he was there to be at all friendly with the mage.

Later that night, he sat and thought over the past month. He hadn’t spoken to and barely seen Luca— she’d taken his desire to cut her off seriously, never even sending anyone after him. He hadn’t heard of any of her exploits and there had been no trouble between her and the templars. She simply existed outside of his sphere, which was already something no other blood mage had the courtesy to do.

Before he realized it, he was standing. He would go to her and have it out, finally. Whatever came of it would come and he would have his answers. Whether or not he forgave her was secondary; this was his opportunity to confront something he feared. Not Luca— if he feared her then he wouldn’t confront her— but her blood magic, and the threat of losing someone he trusted to a path he wouldn’t follow her on.

The trek to Lowtown was dark and although he expected it, Fenris never faltered. He strode directly up to her door— a small stone house much more appealing than her uncle’s— and knocked on it too hard. He regretted it, because it would make her think of templars and bandits and people who wanted to hurt her. He’d only come to talk.

The door cracked open and he saw a sliver of her face. When she saw him properly, she opened the door so he could see all of her— he wondered if she was trying to put him at ease. “Fenris.” _Surprised_ wasn’t the right word, but she didn’t sound displeased to see him. Despite her humble accommodations, Luca’s possessions were always fine. She had a silk robe wrapped around an expensive looking nightgown, and the stone of her floor was kept neatly swept in stark contrast to the filth she’d endured in her brief stay with Gamlen.

“Hello.” He wasn’t sure where his nerves came from— it wasn’t fear, but more or less the realisation that he hasn’t spoken to her in over a month. He didn’t regret his silence, but he was very aware that perhaps their relationship had changed as a result. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Do you want to… come in?” It was such a violent contrast to the irreverent flirt he knew her to be. He nodded and she stood back, allowing him to walk by her. She shut the door behind him and waved her hand to light some candles, before catching herself sharply. “I’m sor—”

“It’s fine,” he said shortly. Her house was terribly small, as always, but it seemed to suit her. The bed was in the main room as were her few luxuries— a plush chair, a surprisingly contemporary kitchen, and smaller touches like the delicate blue crystal tea set she kept on display at all times. In the back was the cramped and yet well-kept bathing room, and she had a spare room for guests (Merrill, and when he was in town, Carver).

Luca sat up on her bed, hugging a lyrium-blue satin pillow against her chest. “Did you want something to drink?” she asked. He shook his head, because he only wanted wine and she wouldn’t buy alcohol. He took one of the chairs, sinking down into it but making sure to keep his feet flat on the floor. He wasn’t so fond as her of looking foolish.

“When did you learn blood magic?” Direct questions would make her uncomfortable. She preferred to flirt and tease her way through conversation, but he wouldn’t have it at the moment. What she said to him now would affect how he interacted with her for the remainder of his time in Kirkwall, and he would have her take him seriously.

“It’s not a very fun story,” she warned, but he stared her down until she shrugged, burrowing against the pillow. “Well, after my father— well he had a bit of an… incident…”

“I understand.” He’d died at the hands of templars and she was loathe to even say it. It was as if she could pretend that he was simply on the run without them, so long as she never said he was dead.

“I was running from them. They’d seen me doing magic as well, after all, and so they came after me and I was on the run for… three days? And finally Carver caught up because he’d found father and went looking for me. We were cornered by templars and I was… angry.” She shrugged but he stayed quiet. He wanted to hear every minute of what had happened. “I heard a demon— it all happened very quickly. For the small price of my autonomy I could _destroy—_ well you know I’m not fond of templars.” She smiled.

“So you’re an abomination like Anders?” he asked. He knew she wasn’t, but she was stalling.

“Maker no. There was this… brief second before it could possess me. I saw very clearly several things— that the demon would kill Carver too, that without the demon Carver would die anyway— and I’d already… well it was just… _Carver—”_

“I understand,” he repeated. She’d already lost her father and only had Carver left.

“And for a split second, I _knew_ what I had to do. The blood magic got to me before the demon did, so I… killed it. And I still knew everything and after that things get a little… hazy. What demons don’t tell you about blood magic is that it makes you so _tired—_ well, anyone sensible would know that after losing so much blood you’d get a bit sleepy, but I wasn’t thinking clearly at the moment. Carver says it was a little frightening but he knows I’d never lay a hand on him.” She toyed with the pillow in her arms.

“When was the next time you did blood magic?” he asked.

“Not for a while actually. There isn’t much practical use for it, unlike fire or frost or anything nature based. It’s just sort of violent and messy, so the next time I even bothered to use it was when we were leaving Ferelden. There was an ogre with its eyes on Carver— I took control of it for a little while, had it take out as many darkspawn as I could stand to hold it for, and then killed it.” She shivered a little. “Then Flemeth showed up and I sort of wished I hadn’t expended all my energy. I could barely stand up which makes for a poor meat shield.”

“Do you regularly use it during battle?” he asked. She tilted her hand.

“I… a mage of any sense wouldn’t use blood magic but for a special occasion—” she began, and he scowled. He was _intimately_ familiar with special occasions where blood magic was considered part of the festivities. “I worded that poorly. I only mean… Merrill doesn’t use it in battle. She only uses it on the mirror because that’s special to her,” she explained. “And I only ever use it when I want to manipulate battle. I’ve used it before on enemies about to strike devastating blows. I use it to heal when my tank falls and would otherwise die. I use it… when people deserve to hurt.”

“That isn’t your decision.” _That_ was the talk of the blood mages that he knew.

“It was my decision when those templars ruined my life,” she snapped. “And I wouldn’t hesitate to use it on anyone that tried that shit on me again. The man hunting Isabela for the relic that she stole, the fuck that killed Sebastian’s family, I’d use it on Danarius if you asked me to! _Bartrand_ is going to get very up close and personal with his own blood if he ever shows his fucking face again, but no, Fenris. The blood mages who use it like the ones in Kirkwall do are idiots who are going to die anyway. There’s no spell where the blood to effect ratio is even enough to benefit them. You can’t achieve immortality by draining yourself into a husk.”

“It isn’t _you_ I’m worried about.” In truth he hadn’t expected this conversation to dissolve as it had. Frankly he’d been entertaining ideas of her repenting for her use of blood magic and asking him for forgiveness but… clearly that was off the table. “And clearly that is why they use the blood of others.”

“I don’t know _how_ to take blood from a living victim,” she hissed. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t! You think the demon told me _everything_ before he possessed me? That a demon would offer me a fair trade? I know how to use mine and I know how to use it out of corpses— you’ve seen me fight, Fenris, I’m a support role. The likelihood of me killing a warrior for their blood is devastatingly low because _they would cut me in half.”_

“And I’m meant to take your word?” he demanded.

“What else do I have to give you? Even if I told you today that I’d stop forever, there’d be no reason for you to believe me.” She put the pillow to the side in favour of fiddling anxiously with her own hands. “And I _know_ that’s my fault. I should have told you that I… well I never _think_ about it. I don’t use it like that so I don’t consider myself to even be a blood mage. I’m a healer with some creative solutions to problems.”

“Call it what you like, the end result will be no different.” He was bitterly disappointed. He’d wanted her to be better, wanted her to renounce what she’d done and… well. It wasn’t going to happen. He shouldn’t have come in the first place, or let himself entertain the hope that for once things would be difference.

She was quiet for a while, while he tried to bring himself to stand and leave. “Fenris?” He grunted. “I could show you if you wanted— not anything… I won’t _do_ anything, but it’ll be like when I showed you my healing.” He watched her, then stood to sit beside her on her bed.

She rifled through her drawers for a sewing needle, and when she came back with one she was making a face. “I hate this part,” she admitted. “It’s always so much easier when you’ve got a dead slaver or something laying around.” He would have made a joke about the bodies in his home, any other day. He remained quiet as her hand flushed red and then glowed with pulsing mana. He reached out for it and she cringed. “Be gentle. It hurts when you’re doing it with your own blood, everything’s so ugly and sensitive.”

“Then what is the point?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say. Corpses are the way to go.”

“Perhaps you fled to the wrong country then,” he offered. “Surely Nevarra would give you more to work with.” She laughed, a little too forcefully— surprised, then that he was teasing her.

“Mummies don’t have blood, and I’d be a terrible necromancer. I just want to use them for magic, not… raise them like paper dolls.” She wrinkled her nose and he snorted.

“I don’t think that necromancy is at all similar to playing with paper dolls.”

“Well then what _do_ they do with them?” She was grinning and he let go of her hand. She made the magic go away and he looked at her carefully for a few moments. Despite everything, she was still Luca; and despite everything, he was still grateful.

“You tread on thin ice,” he warned.

“I know.” She waved out her hand, then looked up at him furtively. “We’re going to Sundermount tomorrow. Varric doesn’t want to go.”

“I think you have been without a warrior for too long,” he told her. “I will meet you here.” She grinned and he thought about reminding her that this was hardly the happy reunion that she seemed to think it was… but he didn’t. He had missed this friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it. [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) in case you missed it in my first note.


End file.
